


Episode I: A New Path

by WholmesProductions



Series: Star-Crossed [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century (Cartoon), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Jedi Knights, Sherbeth, Sherlock is a Jedi, Tatooine, Tatooine Slave Culture, Teacher-Student Relationship, one-sided Sherbeth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WholmesProductions/pseuds/WholmesProductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Children are taken to the Jedi Temple at very young ages, and older children are almost never accepted. But the Council makes an exception for an exceptional child: Sherlock Holmes. Crossover, fusion flavor: Sherlock Holmes in the Star Wars universe. First in the Star-Crossed series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Slave and the Spacer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Star Wars is obviously not ours. Nor, sadly, is Sherlock Holmes. We just own what we do with them.

_"Are you an angel?"_

 

The scenes are always the same. The golden-haired woman behind the counter of the parts shop, the Rodian shopkeeper taking inventory, the down-on-his luck spacer coming in for supplies.

The spacer always straightens up a little at the sight of the young woman, and smiles. And when the Rodian goes into the backroom to find the parts the spacer needs, the man turns his full attention to the woman. "Mind if I ask what a pretty girl like you is doing in a dump like this?"

The woman rolls her grey eyes. "Only if I can ask what a Core-Worlder is doing all the way out here, and as a spacer. If I had to guess, I'd say… ran away from home? Caught a job on the first freighter that would have you? And since you're shopping for parts here that aren't for a ship, reasonable assumption would be that you got stuck on this planet somehow and now you're caught up in day-to-day living."

The man stares at her. "How… how did you…"

She grins impishly. "It's called 'observing' and 'deducing'. You'd be amazed at what you can learn about a being just from their accent."

"You got all that from my accent?!"

Her grin takes a devilish quality, and she turns away to rearrange merchandise on the shelves behind her.

"Okay, well, you answered your own question… but you didn't answer mine."

The woman turns back to him slowly, her grin gone. "I don't exactly work here by choice."

Of course. This is Tatooine. Thousands of beings don't work by choice. "Oh, stang, I'm sorry. That… stupid. Sorry."

She's quiet, but her grey eyes are strangely fierce. "Are you going to stop talking to me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Most offworlders get awkward when they realize they're talking with a slave. The closer to Coruscant, especially, the more awkward they get."

The man shakes his head. "Well, I hope I'm not that shallow. Were you… were you…"

"Was I born one? Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

She sighs, and starts to polish the counter. "It's not your fault."

"Can your freedom be bought? That happens, right?"

She nods. "Yeah, sometimes." She rolls her eyes again. "Of course, _somebody_ likes having 'free help,' so he'd probably charge far more than I'm worth."

"I think he could charge a million credits and still underestimate your value," the man says softly.

The grey eyes widen. Offworlders generally don't talk like this. Not about slaves. Not _to_ slaves. Slaves make them uncomfortable. Slaves are an institution of the Outer Rim that freeborn beings from the Republic don't know how to handle.

But this man, this Core-Worlder who ran away from home to be a spacer… this man is different.

"What's your name?" she asks.

"Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft, I'm Cecelle Vernay. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine."

* * *

He frequents the shop after that. They talk, for hours, and the Rodian allows it because Mycroft always buys some scrap of junk or other to justify the visits.

Mycroft noticed Cecelle's beauty first, but it's her mind and her spirit that he quickly falls in love with. She's brilliant, and well-educated for a slave, allowed HoloNet access which she uses to teach herself more about the galaxy beyond her rock of a planet. Cecelle is like the desert she was born to: strong and solid and sometimes fierce, with a heart as big as the unbroken sky.

Cecelle is intrigued, at first, with this paradox of a Core-Worlder: a man born into a high family, with more money than she could ever dream of having, who ran away because sometimes, freeborn beings are bound in chains, too. After that first meeting, Mycroft never acts awkwardly again about Cecelle's status—he treats it as an unpleasant fact of her existence that doesn't diminish her value as a person.

He also might have the most charmingly crooked smile she's ever seen, but she tries not to think about that.

* * *

They start to spend time together during Cecelle's free hours. Mycroft is careful never to take her outside the city limits of Mos Espa, aware that her slave transmitter is set for in-town only. When a circus pitches its tents on the outskirts, he asks her master, Prutaa, if he'll alter the settings to allow her to go. Prutaa grudgingly agrees, and Cecelle visits her first circus. It's dazzling fun, the acrobats and the trained animals and the snacks, but nothing can beat the knowledge that a freeborn is willing to spend so much time with her, even on a visit to the circus.

The next time they meet after her workload is finished, she takes him to meet her family.

"Slaves are separated from their parents and siblings all the time," she tells him on the way. "Most of us never even meet our fathers—I never did. He was sold to someone offworld, that's all Mom ever knew. She and I were lucky, though: Grandmother lives in Mos Espa, Mom was never taken away from here, and I was never taken away from here. And then there's our spirit family—friends who are so close to us that they are family by choice if not by blood."

"Is it a _big_ family?" Mycroft asks nervously.

Cecelle just gives him that devilish grin.

* * *

As it turns out, it _is_ a big family. Cecelle has two spirit brothers and three spirit sisters; her mother has four spirit brothers and two spirit sisters; her grandmother has four spirit sisters and a man she calls her husband and Cecelle calls "grandfather." Grandfather explains that slaves aren't allowed to marry, so such unions are kept secret, made "official" by nothing more than a brief exchange of vows in private and then an announcement to the grandmothers of the slave community.

They speak together in a language that sounds roughly like Huttese, but Mycroft can't make it out at all. He asks Cecelle later about it. "Anything kept secret from the masters is something they can't take away from us," she says, her eyebrows knotted together, her tone ever so slightly bitter. "The slaves of Tatooine have a language that we made up, and only we know it. The masters don't even know it exists. The language is our heritage and our only freedom."

"What do you use it for?"

"Some… ceremonies…" Cecelle hesitates. She wants to tell Mycroft, but can she trust him that far? No, this is _Mycroft_ , he would _never_ … She sighs, torn.

"Cecelle?"

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I can't."

He looks away. "Oh." He sounds so disappointed, and she almost gives in. But she doesn't, and they walk the rest of the way to her apartment in silence.

* * *

Eventually, she decides to trust him. After all, freeborn operatives are extremely important in this secret, able to do things and go places that slaves can't. "We're working towards a slave revolution," Cecelle whispers.

His eyes go round. "Can you… can you do that?"

"Not yet. There's a lot of things to be taken care of first. But someday. If not in my lifetime, then… maybe the next generation's."

"I hope it's in your lifetime."

She smiles sadly. "Me, too."

They walk silence for a minute, and then he clears his throat. "Ah, Cecelle?"

"Yes?"

"What… what would you do if I bought your freedom?"

She's been expecting this for weeks now, but it still stops her short, because now it's a _reality_ , and though she knows he's entirely sincere about the offer, she also knows that there's another, unspoken question there. So she recovers and maintains a straight face as she says, "Well, I suppose I'd set up my own shop as one of our secret bases of operation."

He nods, not meeting her eyes. "Right. Of course. All right, then, I should go talk to Prutaa—"

"And, of course," she continues, just barely holding back a smile, "I would marry you."

It's Mycroft's turn to stop short, and he stares at her, mouth working soundlessly, eyes as round as the suns. "Y-you would?"

She grins and laughs. "Of _course_ , I would, Mycroft." She holds his gaze, and his hands, and the words that she says next are the most sacred words a slave can give to anyone. "I love you."

He smiles his lopsided smile. "I love _you_." He presses his forehead lightly to hers, and they kiss.

* * *

Prutaa _does_ demand far more than what Cecelle knows would be market price for her, but Mycroft doesn't complain, and Cecelle can't find it in her to be angry with the old alien. Prutaa was a decent master, as far as they go, and Cecelle knows that she was very lucky to be so pretty and yet be bought by a being who wanted her only for her hands and not her body. Her transmitter is deactivated, and she and Mycroft go a little ways outside town as Tatoo I and Tatoo II are sinking into the horizon, and there they promise to love and take care of each other to the end of their days.

* * *

Ten months later, Cecelle gives birth to a baby boy, and they call him 'Sherlock'. In the slave-tongue, it means 'golden one'.

* * *

Mycroft continues to run the business he's been running for a while, buying old speeders and fixing them up until they're as good as new or better, and then selling them at a profit. The building he rents, however, has two floors, and they live on the second and Cecelle runs a shop on the first, and Mycroft does his work outside beneath an awning. Cecelle's shop is a general store and a base for the slaves, as she'd wanted, and she ends up giving away a little more of the merchandise than is profitable, but Mycroft won't stand in her way. The work she's doing is important, and he helps out however he can.

Sherlock soon proves to be at least as smart as his mother, speaking intelligibly at a very young age and getting into trouble often (which, his grandmother says, is what his mom did when she was a toddler). He's doted upon by his mother's family, the first freeborn child their family has had in five generations. His grandmother declares that he's a special child, and as he grows older, he certainly seems to be.

He learns at an almost frighteningly fast pace, always hungry for more knowledge. By the time he's six, he's fluent in Basic and in the language of his people. He turns out to have Cecelle's gift for observation and deduction, and it's difficult to keep secrets around him. But there's more still to him: his reflexes are inhumanly fast, and he has an uncanny knack for finding lost objects, and sometimes, Cecelle would swear that he knows what's going to happen before it does.

"Maybe he can use the Force," Mycroft suggests one night. "If he'd been born in the Republic, we'd know for sure—they test for that sort of thing."

Cecelle shakes her head. "Wouldn't the Jedi take him then?"

"Not if we said 'no.' Everyone has the right to say no, love."

Cecelle lightly strokes the dark hair of her sleeping son. "'The right to say no'... even after seven years, that's a wonder to me."

Mycroft kisses her cheek. "Maybe that's something none of us should ever take for granted."

* * *

His earliest memory is of Mom's voice, deep and rich, like the sky at sunset. He doesn't quite remember what she's saying, but it might be what she tells him from time to time when he's older.

"Always remember, Sherlock: you are made up of the fire of the suns, the vastness of the sky, the solidness of the bedrock. You were born free, and some day you will leave this world. But no matter where you go, or what you do, you must never forget where you came from, and who you are. The moment you do, you will not be free."

"I won't forget," he always replies. "I promise."

* * *

Mom teaches him more than just the language of the slaves: she teaches him their songs and stories, too. She's telling him his favorite, the one about the taming of a krayt dragon, when Dad bursts into the shop. "Cecelle, Sherlock, we need to get out of here—Gepthen's sent his hitmen this time and they're coming our way!"

Gepthen is a Weequay Mom and Dad have borrowed money from, from time to time, and they haven't been able to pay him back lately.

Mom surges to her feet and grabs Sherlock's hand. "All right, get the blaster and let's go."

The durasteel door suddenly _pings_ with blaster bolts hitting it, and Sherlock can't help a cry of surprise and fear. Mom herds him into the back room, and Dad goes for the blaster.

Then front door is blown open and there's blasterfire and a cry of pain from Dad and Mom gasps out Dad's name, and they're opening the backdoor and there's more blasterfire and suddenly Mom jerks forward with a cry.

Sherlock doesn't need to look to know. "MOM!"

"Run, Sherlock!" she gasps out, eyes filling with tears. "I love you!"

He runs, and he runs, and he doesn't stop until he can't _see_ anymore, because the tears are blinding him and they're coming too quickly for him to wipe away now. He staggers back against a wall and curls up and cries until darkness overtakes him...

* * *

He bolts upright with a gasp, chest heaving, eyes wet. Something stirs beside him in the bed, and a calloused, strong hand takes hold of his. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

He takes a deep, shaky breath and whispers back, "Nothing, Grandmother." He lies back down, hoping she can't feel him tremble. "Just a dream."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ria: Dear God, what have I done? =P To think this series started out as just a one-shot for a Christmas challenge... Writing is literally like planting seeds you bought off a stranger on the way to market – no telling what's gonna come up, petunias or a beanstalk. *dons climbing shoes*
> 
> Sky: Yeah, the concept of this 'verse has really captured my imagination and not let go, so, hello, new crossover series! And, honestly, I am SO excited about this story! (And sorry for what happens to Sherlock and his family in this first installment. Oh gosh...)
> 
> If you're new to following us, we have a joint tumblr, WholmesProductions.tumblr.com. I've already been throwing up art on my own blog for this series, and I'll be reblogging it to our tumblr soon. So stay tuned for that and more installments of this story!


	2. Pt I, Ch 1: The Amateur Jedi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes wants to be a Jedi, but getting off Tatooine is a bit of a problem when you're a penniless eleven-year-old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N (from Sky): After a year—a year!—I can finally move on with this episode! I'm sorry for the wait, guys—this first chapter was actually very hard! But now I have a definite plan for the rest of the episode, and though I might only be able to do an update every once in a while, this is definitely a story that will continue. I love it too much to let it go!
> 
> Happy 40th, Star Wars!

 

**==Part I: The Prodigy==**

" _My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere."_  
— Sherlock Holmes, _The Sign of the Four_

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Amateur Jedi**

" _The Force is unusually strong with him; that much is clear."  
_ — Qui-Gon Jinn, _The Phantom Menace_

For as long as he could remember, there had been the Force. Not that he knew it was called that, not for a long time. But there had always been a hum at the back of his mind, a hum that grew louder when he tried to poke and prod at it. He could react faster than other children, he could understand what other people were thinking in a way that had nothing to do with _reading_ them like Mom had done, and sometimes, he knew what was going to happen before it happened.

Based on the stories he had heard the spacers tell, Sherlock Holmes could only conclude that he was a Jedi.

His research on the HoloNet had turned up little useful information, mostly stories about Jedi in the Republic. The stories didn't tell him _why_ he had these abilities or how to use them, so he had to figure it out for himself. He eventually discovered that, if he concentrated very hard, he could _know_ things simply by silently asking a question and thinking about it.

He also discovered that he had flashes of daydreams—and sometimes dreams at night, too—that came true later.

He only ever told Grandmother about it. "I knew you were meant for something special," she murmured, touching his face. "The first freeborn child in our family in generations—how could you not be?"

"I can use this," he told her excitedly. "I mean, if I can ever find another Jedi, and get them to teach me how to use my abilities, I can help in the revolution! I can be its Jedi weapon." When he was old enough to keep secrets, Mom had told him about the coming slave revolution, and how she and Dad worked towards it. Now that… that they were… gone… it was what he lived for—to free his people someday, so that tragedies such as what had happened to his parents never happened again. If the Masters were overthrown, thugs like the ones who killed his parents wouldn't dare try to hurt innocent people anymore.

Of course, he had to survive to adulthood, first. On the streets, that was easier said than done. Some nights, he spent at Grandmother's, but he couldn't fall back on her often or her master would take notice. Most nights, he spent on the streets wherever he could find a safe spot, and the streets of Mos Espa were teeming with the dregs of galactic society. Very few children roamed the town freely without being snapped up by slavers or beings willing to turn children over to slavers for a little extra cash.

At least the various slave families around town were willing to share what little food they had, every once in a while, though most of his meals were ill-gotten. Mom and Dad had taught him better morals than that, and he fully intended to live by that code once he'd survived long enough to do so.

The past two years of being on his own… they weren't _living_. He had friends, he had family, but it wasn't a good life, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he might have to try to get offworld to find a better one. If he did, he _would_ come back someday and help free the slaves. Of course, he would. They were his people, and he owed them.

Things would be so much easier if he could find another Jedi.

Every now and then, he felt the presence of another being like him, one who felt a little brighter than other people did. But tracking these beings down never led to anything productive: without fail, none of them were real Jedi. Of course, the Jedi Knights worked in the Republic, and rarely came all the way out here. But it didn't stop him from hoping, and trying to find _someone_.

* * *

He was eleven when it happened.

It was the day of the Boonta Eve Classic podrace, and he and some of his friends were planning on pickpocketing in the crowd. He had just entered the stadium when he felt it.

Two presences so bright that they blazed with the light of the twin suns.

_Jedi!_

Somewhere in the masses of hundreds of thousands of beings was a someone who was powerful in the Force. Sherlock began to wander the stands, hoping that he was on the same side of the track as the Jedi—getting across the track during a race would be difficult and deadly. More than one fool had met their Maker that way.

At last, he felt himself drawing nearer to one of the Jedi, and turned his focus from the hum in his mind to his vision. He saw the usual infinite variety of beings who usually attended the podraces… only… ah…

The being was of a species Sherlock had never encountered before: short, stocky, and furry, with a long snout for a face, large eyes, and a long mane braided neatly. While the people around them chatted with each other or watched the video feeds of the race, this being was talking into a comlink, though Sherlock could not understand what they were saying from where he stood. But that was one of the Jedi, he was sure of it. He felt a rightness to it as he watched the small being.

How, then, should he introduce himself? He couldn't just walk up to the being and say, "Hi, sir, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I want to be a real Jedi."

* * *

Jedi Master Kenit Nusep found himself repeatedly distracted and needing his former Padawan to repeat herself over the comm. "I'm sorry, Kytti; I sense… something… and I'm not sure what."

" _Danger?"_

"No, not danger, but… something. A disturbance in the Force. Be alert, young one."

"Yes, Master."

The next moment, he felt the pouch on his belt move, and his hand shot down to stop the person responsible. There was a child's yelp, and he turned to find the wrist he was holding attached to a human boy. The child was taller than he by a good half meter, dark-haired, tanned, and severely thin.

And his eyes.

Kenit had rarely seen such old eyes in such a young child.

The boy was Force-sensitive. That was why Kenit had been distracted—he'd felt the boy's presence, and he wondered now how he hadn't noticed it properly before. The child was a star gone nova in the Force.

" _Master Kenit? Master!"_

Kytti. Kenit raised his comlink again. "I'm all right, Kytti. I've been accosted by a ragamuffin, that is all. I'll be with you in a minute."

" _Yes, Master."_

His comlink off and pocketed, Kenit returned his attention to the child. "Careful, boy," he grumbled. "You might have been caught by a mark less friendly."

The child gave a grin that vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. "My apologies, good sir."

Kenit snorted and let go of the thin wrist. "You have nice manners for a thief. You should move on, now; I have dangerous business to attend to."

Something like excitement and perhaps also panic flitted across the boy's face. "Do you? Maybe I could help."

Ah, the child _did_ want something. Kenit shook his head. "If you want to help, sit down and stay here. The work I have today is much too dangerous to include a youngling."

The boy folded his arms. "You may be surprised at what I can do."

Kenit raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps. But if you wish my help, as I believe you do, you should take heed. I must go, but I will return shortly if you wish it."

"I… I do." Vulnerability rippled beneath the boy's surface of bravado, a trait Kenit had often seen in street children.

"Very well. I shall see you soon."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The Jedi turned and began to make his way through the crowd—easy enough to do when you were a mere three-quarters of a meter tall, as he was. Sherlock waited until the Jedi was out of sight, then moved. Before he had attempted to pick the Jedi's pocket—or pouch, more properly—he had overheard snatches of the conversation between the Jedi and his partner. Kenit and Kytti. That was an unfortunate pairing of given names if ever he'd heard one—sounded more like a comedy duo than a Jedi team!

But more important than learning the names of the Jedi was discovering what they were doing on Tatooine. Or rather, the words "Black Sun"—Sherlock didn't need to hear the rest of the conversation to deduce the basics.

Black Sun was the galaxy's biggest and most infamous crime syndicate, spanning across the Galactic Republic and out across the Outer Rim. And Sherlock had been given to understand, in the past, that they were always looking to expand. It could be that the two Jedi were here to stop an expansion; it could be as simple as finding and arresting a particular member for a particular crime. He didn't know the specifics, only who was involved.

That was enough to go on.

* * *

One hour, one collective brush with death, and one unconscious and arrested Black Sun agent later, Sherlock was sitting in a starship— _a starship!_ —under the intense scrutiny of a 75-centimeter-tall Jedi Master and a much taller and much younger human female Jedi Knight. Any other time at all, Sherlock would have been withering under the stern glares, but the fact that he was sitting in a starship at all, even if not airborne, for the first time in his life, buoyed his spirits.

"What in the all the galaxies possessed you to do something so colossally foolish as trying to interfere with a Black Sun agent?" Kenit Nusep thundered.

"A sense of public duty?" Sherlock ventured hopefully. "I _did_ get his blaster off of him."

"And could have gotten yourself killed as well in the process!" The Jedi kneaded his forehead. "What is it you want from us, youngling? Is it a ride home?"

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "A ride home, sir?"

"Your accent," Kytti Wynntir clarified. She was a slender human female in her twenties, with short red hair, green eyes, and the palest skin Sherlock had ever seen on a human, so pale it almost looked white. Except for irregular patches of skin along the right side of her neck, reaching her jaw—those patches were darker. Sherlock was betting those patches were actually synthflesh, although he wasn't sure what kind of injury would require coverage in that part of her body. "You're from the Core, aren't you?"

Sherlock's face cleared. "Oh. No, ma'am. My father was; I picked it up from him." People had made the mistake before, though, when Core inflections accidentally slipped into the Outer Rim accent he often used to escape notice.

"Then what do you want, boy?" the older Jedi pressed. "We need to return to Coruscant."

"I want you to take me with you."

"We are not a public transport service!"

Kytti stepped in again. "What about your parents?"

"They're dead," Sherlock said flatly. "It's just my grandmother and me, and she can't even look after me all the time because she's a slave and I'm free. Believe me, she knows how much I want to get off this rock."

"I sympathize, young one," Kenit began, "but we cannot—"

"I want to be a Jedi Knight."

That froze both adults.

"I want to be a Jedi Knight," Sherlock repeated, filling each word with the utmost conviction.

Kenit looked at him hard and long, his gaze penetrating in a way that Sherlock had never seen from anyone before. He had been able to stare at a person and sort of take them apart, but he had never been on the receiving end of that look before, and it was unnerving. Nevertheless, he raised his chin and held the Jedi's gaze, refusing to break eye contact.

"Why?" Kenit said at last.

"I know I'm like you; I've known that for a long time. I can do things no one else I know can, but I know there's more to it. I want to learn. And… and I want to help people. And I know I can help them better as a Jedi than any other way."

"Perhaps," the Jedi master said slowly.

Kytti's eyes widened. "Master, you can't possibly—"

Kenit raised a hand. "Peace, my old Padawan. Master Holmes, do you know what the life of a Jedi is like?"

"You travel around the galaxy and help out people who need it. You negotiate treaties, protect people, investigate crimes…"

"Yes, we do. But there is more to the life of a Jedi than that. It is a commitment to a certain way of life, a certain way of thinking. It means to put the needs of others above the needs of your own, always, without fail."

Sherlock nodded. "I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

Kytti stared incredulously at the older Jedi, who returned her gaze calmly. "You must excuse us for a moment, my boy. We have things to discuss."


	3. Pt I, Ch 2: Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creating your own Call to Adventure is hard. Answering it—and leaving home—is even harder.

_“This path has been placed before you. The choice is yours alone.”_ _  
_ — Shmi Skywalker, _The Phantom Menace_

 

Kytti Wynntir, recently made a Jedi Knight, stared at her former master in disbelief. Kenit Nusep, Svivreni Jedi Master for over thirty years, had never entirely been what one would call an “orthodox” Jedi, but this was a new height of non-conformity. “Master, you cannot seriously consider taking this boy to the Council! They’ll never allow him to enter the Order—he’s too old!”

“I disagree,” Kenit said placidly. “He is an orphan on a backwater world who has asked for our help. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If we are truly Jedi—if our purpose is to aid and protect those who need it—then we must honor that, even when it contradicts a code that was formed for practicality, not morality.”

Kytti sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose—this was an old argument of theirs. Conscience versus rules. Her stance was that rules were created for very good reasons. Kenit didn’t disagree, as such—he demanded respect of rules and traditions, in point of fact—but he didn’t let it stop him when he truly believed that bending or breaking a rule was the right thing to do.

She didn’t mind the idea of helping the boy in some way—she wasn't heartless, thank you very much!—but she didn’t believe for one second that the Jedi High Council would ever accept an almost-adolescent child.

"Besides which," Kenit continued, "he already knows he is Force-sensitive, and he's clever and resourceful. What do you think might happen if we don't give him so much as a chance? At the very least, what might our rejection do to him?"

"And what if the Council rejects him?—as they almost certainly will!"

"We can cross that bridge when we come to it."

The younger Jedi huffed in frustration, running a hand through her hair.

"Kytti," the older Jedi said softly, "listen. Reach out with the Force, and listen."

Sighing again, Kytti obeyed. She felt the bright presence of her old master, the even brighter presence of the child. And the Force was a cacophony, hundreds of threads of sound tangling around the child and the Svivreni—some Light, some Dark, many indeterminate, but all converged around the Jedi Master and the boy. She shook her head slowly. "I don't understand," she murmured.

"This is one of those moments," Kenit said gravely. "A moment when what you decide can shape not only your own life, but also the lives of those around you. Kytti, in the other room is a boy who has asked for our help. Would you refuse him? Could you look him in the eye and do that?"

Kytti exhaled slowly, releasing her tension into the Force. "No... no, I couldn't." She gave him a small smile. "You taught me too well."

Kenit nodded, and though he didn't smile back, she felt his approval. "Very well, then."

* * *

Sherlock rapidly drummed his fingers on his knees as he attempted to take in his surroundings and make deductions about what he observed. But he couldn’t control his thoughts: his attention kept straying towards the door, and the muted voices in the room beyond that he could only just barely hear, and not understand. Besides which, the room he sat in was spare, with a table, four chairs, and several crates in a corner, and immaculately clean. There was no real data to be gathered here.

He sighed and drummed his fingers harder in a too-fast rendition of an old slave song, a song of resistance. _Mom, is this what you would have wanted? Dad, would you have wanted this for me? Would you have let me?_ He didn’t dwell too long on those thoughts; he couldn’t—he already felt the familiar despairing sadness creeping up on his heart. _Focus, Sherlock. You can’t afford to lose it right now_.

But when the door hissed open, he jumped, to the apparent amusement of the Jedi Master. “Sherlock Holmes,” said Kenit, “perhaps we should go to your grandmother’s home and make certain you really _should_ be coming with us.”

Sherlock stared, and only nodded after he caught himself. “Yes, sir!"

“Then let’s be off. Kytti will stay onboard and guard the prisoner.”

“He won’t escape,” Kytti said grimly. There was something hard in her tone, akin to the voice of a bounty hunter, and Sherlock wondered what had happened to the young woman to put that sort of hardness in her voice.

Kenit nodded and beckoned to Sherlock. “Then let us be off, young one.”

* * *

The Jedi had landed on the outskirts of Mos Espa to avoid attracting undue attention, and thus the walk to Sherlock’s grandmother’s quarters was a long one. At least she would be _home_ at this time of evening, and not working. That would have made things difficult.

 _More difficult_ , he amended in his thoughts. Now that he finally had the opportunity to leave Tatooine, he had to face the _other_ facet of that fact: he was leaving his friends and family. He didn’t even have time, really, to make his goodbyes to everyone; he would have to ask Grandmother to make them for him.

And Grandmother… Grandmother would be very difficult to leave behind. For her own sake, he really shouldn’t be going—she had friends, but no flesh-and-blood family left now except for him. Her daughter was dead, her mother was dead, her husband had been sold away forever ago, and now her grandson was leaving her!

 _I can’t do this to her_. He stopped short, blinking back tears.

Kenit halted and turned to him, studying him intently. “Are you sure you wish to leave, young one?” he said gently.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, shoulders tense, stomach sick with misery. “I _do_ want to leave. I’ve been wanting that for a long time now. I want to be a proper Jedi. I want to be able to help people and not have to worry about where my next meal will come from or dodging slavers or feeling helpless because I’m just trying to survive this rock when I could be out _there_ , out in the rest of the galaxy, using whatever powers I have for something good!”

Kenit listened calmly, not moving a muscle. “And what holds you back?”

 _I’m scared_. _And I don’t want to do this to my grandmother_. “Do you have any family, Master Kenit?”

“Jedi do not have family.” Sherlock blinked— _what?!_ —and Kenit continued placidly. “We have, however, Masters and Padawans. Leaving someone you care about… may be the natural way of things, but that does not make it easy.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “I don’t want to leave my grandmother. We’re… we’re almost all each other has.”

“I understand,” Kenit said gravely. “Sherlock, I won’t lie to you: being a Jedi is not easy. Even if you reach Knighthood, it’s a hard life. You will be required to give up what you own, what you love. You will be asked to give of yourself, over and over, without asking anything in return.”

“...is it worth it?” The words were out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop them.

Kenit gave him a small, sad smile. “We can only hope.” He paused, then continued. “I sense you wish to be a hero, young one. But you must understand: the truest heroes, the ones with the purest hearts, the deepest commitments… are such because they surrender their own desires, and put the needs of others above their own.”

“Like my grandmother,” Sherlock murmured. _She_ was a hero; he had never doubted that.

Kenit inclined his head. “Just so.”

“I’m not sure what to do.”

“Let’s discuss it with your grandmother, then.”

* * *

Grandmother had been shocked at first, to learn that Sherlock had finally found other Jedi, but she was not surprised by either his desire or his reluctance to go. “Sherlock,” she said gently, “I’ve always known that this world would not be able to hold you forever. You were meant for more than just surviving Tatooine—you were the first freeborn child in our family for generations.”

Sherlock felt his heart sink rather than rise. “So you think I should go?” he asked in a small voice.

“I think,” she said slowly, taking his small hands in both of hers, weathered but strong, “that the only person who can decide that is you. Whatever you choose will shape your life forever, so _only_ you can make that choice.”

“This will probably be my one chance, won’t it?” he said quietly.

She glanced at Kenit, then nodded once. “Probably, yes.”

Sherlock paused, taking in every wrinkle, every _laugh_ _line_ , every grey strand of hair, committing them to memory. He didn’t want to leave her… but if he didn’t go now, he knew, in his very bones, that he would regret not taking this path. Not even _trying_.

He lowered his head, not able to look her in the eye—in _his_ eyes, the same grey eyes in an older face. “I want to go,” he said softly, almost inaudibly.

She squeezed his hands, and said, “Master Jedi, would you excuse us for a moment?”

“Of course,” Sherlock heard Kenit say, and there was the sound of the Jedi leaving the hovel.

Sherlock looked at his hands, still enclosed in Grandmother’s, and then looked back up to her. “Grandmother?”

She leaned forward ‘til her forehead was touching his, and breathed a blessing in Eltakku, the secret language of the slaves. _May the strength of our people go with you, and may the wisdom of the desert guide you._ _May your feet be steady, your hands raised to help and never harm, your words kind and never cruel. And until we meet again, may you always go in safety_.

Sherlock was crying by the end of it. “I love you, Gran.”

Her eyes were also glistening. “I love _you_ , my boy. My Sherlock.” She enfolded him in a long hug, rubbing his back soothingly. At last, she withdrew slightly, stroking his cheek and brushing away his tears. “Now, go on,” she said, voice catching. “Get your things.” And while he went to do that, she stepped outside for a moment to tell Kenit what Sherlock had decided.

Sherlock didn’t own much—what little his family had had was lost in the raid that had taken his parents’ lives, and living a life on the run from hideout to hideout had accomplished nothing in the way of material gain. Aside from his knapsack, he had a water bottle, a flashlight, a datapad, some data chips, one change of clothing, a small vibroknife that he’d never used, and a handful of (stolen) trugguts. The coins he gave to his grandmother; he didn’t expect he would need them outside of Tatooine, so she would get more use out of them than he could now.

“Would you tell everyone where I’ve gone?” he asked her.

“Of course, I will. Is that everything?”

He tried to swallow the rising lump in his throat. “Yeah.” He took a step towards the door, then stopped and hurled himself at her. “I can’t, Gran, I just can’t. I can’t leave you alone. I can’t…” _I can’t lose you!_

She knelt down to look him in the eye, and touched his cheek again. “Oh, sweetheart. I will miss you. But you _should_ go; I believe that.” She gave him a smile that did not reach her eyes. “We’ll both have to be brave, yes?”

“I guess so,” he mumbled miserably.

“Be brave for me, sweetheart.”

 _Be brave for her_. For himself, he couldn’t, but for his grandmother… He straightened and raised his chin. “I… will. I’ll become a Jedi, and then I’ll come back and free you. I promise.”

He never clearly remembered leaving the hovel, walking away with Kenit, back to the freighter. He thought that he might have turned back or almost turned back several times, but he didn’t quite remember. It had hurt to much to be even properly aware of his surroundings, and entering the starship didn’t quite register until his feet were clanking on metal. That pulled him back into the real world with a jolt, and then he was being taken to the cockpit and told to strap in. The bright blue sky gradually dimmed and faded completely to black, studded with a million tiny white points. The awe-inspiring sight pierced the despondency that had settled over his heart, and he watched in something very akin to delight until the stars elongated to blue-white streaks and they shot forward into hyperspace.

He didn’t cry. The ache in his heart was too much for tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor little Sherlock! *hugs him* Sorry, I know this fic has been a little slow to start, but at least next time we will finally get to the Temple, and hopefully things will pick up a little from there. This won't be a terribly action-packed story simply because that's not how I (Sky) roll, but what we're losing in action I think I can make up for with some really good character stuff. All I ask is that you give it a chance, and let me know if you like it! Some reviews would be nice. :)


	4. Pt I, Ch 3: Coruscant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes, meet the Jedi Council.

_“Finding him was the will of the Force; of that I have no doubt.”_  
—Qui-Gon Jinn, _The Phantom Menace_

 

Sherlock Holmes found that he did not have the words to describe Coruscant. The planet was vast, bigger even than Tatooine, which he’d heard was very big for a habitable planet. And Coruscant _sparkled_. Sunlight gleamed over the edge of the planet’s atmosphere, and there were as many lights shining in the night and twilight zones of the planet as shone in the night sky itself.

Kytti, who was flying the ship, glanced over her shoulder and smiled at the boy’s wonderment. “Did you know that Coruscant is one giant city?”

“My dad told me,” Sherlock said softly, “but I couldn’t really… imagine it. Not like _this_.”

She hummed and steered the ship through the realspace lane of traffic extending from the city-planet, one of many spidering out from it.

He had already known something of what hyperspace lanes were like, but, during the trip, Kytti further explained that _all_ ships going to or from Coruscant _had_ to take these lanes in or out, no matter their point of departure or final destination respectively. Anything else would result in an ongoing series of collisions, since the planet was the single busiest interstellar traffic hub in the galaxy.

And the spectacle of thousands of ships entering and departing the planet was as enthralling as the spectacle of the planet itself. Sherlock dearly wished he could unbuckle his crash webbing and press himself against the transparisteel viewport to take it all in.

Kenit’s voice broke into his thoughts: “We have a prisoner to drop off at a police station, and then we’ll go on to the Temple. You had best stay here in the cockpit until we are away from the station.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kenit nodded, and keyed up the ship’s comm unit to make a call to said station. Sherlock tuned it out in favor of surveying the city they were flying above, impossibly high metal spires reaching _above_ clouds.

The freighter came to a stop on one of a series of landing platforms above a building shorter than the towers, but much broader and darker, drab and matt against the shining edifices surrounding it. Sherlock felt wisps of frustration, determination, fear, anger, hate, and even despair… _So, this is what a police station_ feels _like in the Force_.

The Force. Sherlock had heard that term for the first time while en-route in hyperspace, while Kytti and Kenit were talking, and he’d asked what that was.

“The Force is what gives a Jedi his abilities,” Kenit had explained. “It’s an energy field that surrounds us and penetrates us, and binds the galaxy together. Without it, life would not exist.”

Sherlock had taken a minute to digest that. “So… we’re all part of the Force.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Sherlock frowned. “And Jedi… basically, Jedi manipulate reality. That’s what the Force is.”

Kenit tilted his head. “Essentially, yes, that is correct. The philosophy of the Jedi Order is a bit more in-depth than that, but you have the basic concept.”

Sherlock blinked, trying to come to terms with this information. “ _I_ can manipulate reality.”

“Only to a point,” Kenit said warningly, “and only within the bounds of the Jedi Code. Anything more than that is… discouraged.”

“Master,” Kytti murmured. Kenit stopped, and she gave him a Look.

Sherlock realized that Kytti was concerned that her old master would scare him. To keep the situation from getting awkward, he asked more questions about the Force and the Jedi, which led to an explanation of midi-chlorians, the “building blocks” of the Force, and then to the Jedi master taking a sample of Sherlock’s blood to discover his midi-chlorian count.

Sherlock felt Kenit’s stunned disbelief in the Force, but Kenit would not tell him what was wrong with the blood sample.

Now, Sherlock could only sit back in his seat and wait for the Jedi to return from the police station, and watch the ships and speeders go by, and wonder.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

 

The Jedi Temple was _enormous_ , a huge block rising up from the other buildings around it, and five towers rising even higher from the block itself, one on each corner and one larger one in the middle. “That’s where the Jedi High Council meets,” Kytti told him. “They’re the wisest of the Jedi Masters, and they’ll decide whether or not to accept you into the Order.”

“Don’t worry, Sherlock,” Kenit said immediately, “they will.”

“They’ll have to be _convinced_ ,” Kytti insisted. “But, I have to admit, if there’s anyone who can convince them to take you in, Sherlock, it’s Master Kenit.”

“That will do, young one,” Kenit said gruffly, but Sherlock caught a trace of amusement from him.

“It’s so _big_ ,” Sherlock breathed.

“It’s home to over ten thousand Jedi,” Kenit said wryly, as they flew towards a large hangar. “Did you expect it to be small?” They landed, and Sherlock could see several other small craft sitting in the hangar. “Kytti, would you stay with Sherlock while I make a report to the Council?”

Kytti sighed. “As you wish, Master.”

“I won’t be long,” he said reassuringly, hopping down from his seat and leaving the cockpit.

“I think that’s a rather optimistic appraisal,” Kytti said as she and Sherlock followed.

Kenit snorted. “And _you_ worry too much, my old Padawan.”

Kytti looked less than impressed, but she merely said, “We’ll be in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

“Very well.”

As soon as they’d exited the hangar, the trio went in two different directions, Sherlock watching Kenit go with apprehension twisting his gut. He didn’t want to be left alone with Kytti; he didn’t think she liked him. And now that it came to it, he was worried that the Jedi Order—the Jedi Council—wouldn’t accept him.

Kytti put a gentle, guiding hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and steered him along with her. He almost moved away from her hand, but stopped himself and looked up at her. “Where are we going?”

“To an indoor garden.” She paused. “Have you ever seen a garden before?” He shook his head. “Well, you’re in for a treat.” Her grave expression softened. “The Room of a Thousand Fountains is _the_ garden, one of the most beautiful of many on Coruscant.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, and Kytti sighed again. “I apologize, Sherlock, if I have seemed… at all hostile towards you. As crazy as it may sound, it really is nothing personal. The Order has certain ways of living and doing things and choosing new Jedi, and… I’m not certain things will work out for you here because of that. My old master is so convinced that he can get his way with you that… I’m not sure he’s thought through what will happen if he can’t. How that will affect you.”

Sherlock almost stopped in his tracks. “I… apology accepted?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, _everything_ is overwhelming right now.”

“I can imagine,” Kytti said feelingly. “I can certainly imagine.”

* * *

The Room of a Thousand Fountains was unlike anything Sherlock had ever seen before, and beyond anything he’d ever imagined. He’d never seen green plants before, or plants of any color other than brown… and the Room was filled to _bursting_ with color. Green dominated, but there were liberal splashes of red, yellow, purple, orange, blue, and pink.

And _water_. He’d never seen so much water in his entire life!

“It’s incredible,” he breathed reverently.

Kytti smiled softly. “It is, isn’t it?”

“What does it _do_? I mean, what is it here for?”

“Do you know what a garden is?”

“Well, you can use one to grow crops… or you can use one just for show.” Having an entire space of plant life just for show seemed like a dreadful extravagance to Sherlock. “But… I never understood why you would have one for show.”

“Coming from Tatooine, I suppose you wouldn’t. It’s beauty for beauty’s sake, at least in part.”

“‘Beauty for beauty’s sake,’” Sherlock repeated softly. He understood, of course, the concept of art as something to simply enjoy looking at, but it still seemed strange to make art out of plants when some parts of the galaxy barely even _had_ plants.

“We also use this space as a place to talk, to think, to meditate,” Kytti continued. “It’s very peaceful.”

“It is that,” Sherlock agreed. “Are we going to walk around until Kenit comes back?”

“ _Master_ Kenit,” Kytti corrected. “If you’re going to be a Jedi, you have to learn to speak like one. And initiates and Padawans always call older Jedi ‘Master’ as a sign of respect.”

“I wasn’t supposed to call _anyone_ ‘Master’ ever,” Sherlock said quietly.

Kytti stopped. “Ah.” A beat, and then: “Sherlock, you know it’s not like that, right? We’re not slaves. It’s a term of respect, for the closeness older Jedi have to the Force, for their level of skill; that’s all.” She ventured a smile then. “And, yes, we’re going to walk around until Master Kenit comes back. Don’t you want to explore?”

He nodded shyly, and her smile widened. “Let’s get to it, then.”

* * *

Kenit Nusep was one of the more senior masters in the Jedi Order, so much so that he was up for promotion to the Jedi Council. That future, however, would depend on this meeting went. He paused as he finished his report on the Black Sun mission, a report he normally would have delivered with Kytti—he had already told the masters that the young Knight would have deliver her report on her own in the morning.

Ja’ali Se, the Togruta Grandmaster of the Jedi Order, tilted her head. “Master Kenit, is there more you wish to tell us?”

“Yes, my masters. While on Tatooine, Kytti and I encountered a Force-sensitive child.”

“I see,” Ja’ali said softly. “How old is this child?”

“Eleven years old.”

“You know, of course,” said Yehude Dorn, human Master of the Order, “that the child is far too old to become a Jedi. Why do you mention them, then?”

“I have brought him with us to the Temple,” Kenit said evenly, “because I do wish for him to be trained.”

“Preposterous!” Yehude snapped.

“It is not our way,” Hylar Fenisa interjected in her deep, gentle voice. The bronze-skinned human woman looked regretful. “Kenit, you know better.”

“He asked for our help,” Kenit told her. “He possesses a brilliant mind, and he knows he can use the Force.”

There was a ripple of surprise around the circular chamber.

“He must be strong in the Force,” Ja’ali mused.

“He is,” said Kenit. “He has the highest concentration of midi-chlorians I have ever encountered in a lifeform. Perhaps not the highest in Jedi history, but assuredly close.”

Ja’ali and Yehude looked at each other. The head of the Jedi Order and the head of the Jedi Council _rarely_ saw eye-to-eye, but they had worked together long enough to hold entire conversations with the merest exchange of glances. Yehude sighed and turned back to Kenit. “Bring him before us.”

* * *

Sherlock glanced around him as he entered the Council Chamber, trying to get decent readings on all twelve of the Jedi Masters in the room. He sensed curiosity and apprehension, and even outright dismissal; his powers of observation, however, couldn’t yield much more than that. He looked back at Kenit, standing in the doorway, who nodded to him and left. _Great, thanks_. He was on his own for this one.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, and inwardly cursed at how inane he sounded.

A female Togruta—older than most of the other beings in the room, he thought—blinked placidly. “Hello, young one. What is your name?”

Sherlock straightened and lifted his chin. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Welcome to the Jedi Temple, Sherlock Holmes,” the Togruta said kindly. “I am Ja’ali Se, Grandmaster of the Jedi Order. This—” she nodded to the bearded, pale-skinned male human sitting beside her— “is Yedude Dorn, Master of the Order, head of this council. He and I shall be conducting this interview with you.”

Sherlock decided that a slight bow was probably in order. “It is an honor to meet you Master Se, Master Dorn.”

“As it is to meet you, young Holmes,” said Master Dorn, but Sherlock felt very strongly that he didn’t mean it. “Master Nusep asks that you be allowed into the Jedi Order. What do you think of this idea?”

“I asked him to bring me here,” Sherlock replied. “I want to be a Jedi.”

“A noble goal, certainly,” said Master Se. “Why?”

“Well, I know that I can use the Force, so it makes sense for me to learn _how_ to use it properly. And… I want to help people.” The reasons began to spill out of him, drawn out by the gentle warmth in Master Se’s violet eyes. He could trust her; he knew that as surely as he knew his own name. “I want to protect them. I grew up in a place where it’s dangerous just to _be_ a kid. I don’t want other kids to have to experience that, not if I can help it. My parents were killed by a gang two years ago, and I’ve been _surviving_ ever since—and I’m tired of it! I want to do something with my life that _means_ something.”

Master Se accepted that with a slow nod of her head. “All are admirable reasons, young one.”

“However,” Master Dorn interjected, “you must understand that the Jedi do not allow children as old as you are to join this Order.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why not? Why turn somebody down if they’re willing to do whatever it takes to become a Jedi? What kind of sense does that make?” He caught slightly amused glances around the room, and realized that the amusement wasn’t even focused on him, not really—as if he had stumbled across an inside joke by accident.

“It is… complicated,” said Master Se. “You are right, however, to assert your willingness as a reason for the Council to break a longstanding rule.”

“A longstanding rule,” a dark-skinned male human snorted, “of _thousands_ of years.”

Sherlock looked around the room, his heart sinking. None of the masters looked particularly convinced that he was a chance worth taking, although, to be fair, some faces were very alien, and he couldn’t be sure of them. He turned back to Master Se. “All I know,” he said quietly, “is what I’ve got. I’m smart. I can use the Force. I am willing to make whatever sacrifices you want me to make. _Please_. Let me do this.”

A thoughtful silence descended upon the room, at length broken by Master Dorn. “Before this Council makes a decision, you will be tested here on your sensitivity to the Force.”

Sherlock nodded. “I understand.”

“Very well. Let’s begin.”

* * *

In the aftermath, Sherlock was shivering, cold now in Coruscant’s night, his head buzzing from the strain he’d put it through. He’d had to answer questions based on _feeling_ the right answers in the Force, and while he had done so occasionally in the past, he had never done it as frequently and _intensely_ as he had tonight.

As the Council broke up, the masters getting to their feet, Master Se approached him. “Come, young one. I’ll take you to Master Nusep’s quarters; you’ll be staying with him tonight.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said in a small voice. He couldn’t gauge what the masters were thinking about him, not anymore; he was too tired.

Master Se took him to the turbolift and didn’t wait for any of her fellow Jedi to join them before selecting the proper floor and sending them down. “Are you tired, young one?”

“Very,” Sherlock said feelingly, before he could catch himself. He grimaced.

She noticed. “Child, you will never have to lie to feel you have given me a good impression of yourself,” she said kindly. “I have been the head of this Order for twenty years, and all its children and all their hopes and fears are safe with me.”

“I’m not one of your children yet, though,” he protested. “And it looks as though I never will be.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she countered. “You made a positive impression on many of the masters. You made a positive impression on me.” She placed her fingers under his chin and gently raised it. “You are a special child, Sherlock Holmes. You speak like a Jedi, you have the heart of one, without ever being raised as one. You have my word that I will do all I can to see you succeed in this place.” She smiled. “And the influence of a Grandmaster is not to be taken lightly.”

The lift stopped, the door opened, and they stepped out into the corridor beyond, Sherlock trailing behind Master Se. He nodded slowly, overwhelmed by the idea that he had just gained a very powerful advocate. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. “Except… thank you, Master Se. Thank you very much.”

“You’re very welcome, Sherlock Holmes.”

Kenit met them at the door to his apartment, and ushered Sherlock in with a murmured thanks and goodnight to Master Se. Master Se departed, and Kenit managed to get Sherlock to eat a light dinner, clean himself up and put on fresh, loose clothes before the boy tumbled gratefully into a small cot. He was out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Not for the first time, his sleep was disturbed by dreams. He saw his mother and father, as he so often did, alive and happy. He saw his grandmother telling the children of Mos Espa stories, as was her duty.

But this time, there was something new.

He saw a krayt dragon—a real, winged krayt dragon, not the ten-legged abomination the Hutts had spawned—rise into the shimmering Tatooine sky, the twin suns glinting on its white scales. Were this reality, he would have been blinded. The dragon roared, spreading its wings, and then settled once again to the ground and looked him straight in the eye.

_“Always remember, Sherlock: you are made up of the fire of the suns, the vastness of the sky, the solidness of the bedrock. You were born free, and some day you will leave this world. But no matter where you go, or what you do, you must never forget where you came from, and who you are. The moment you do, you will not be free.”_

_DO NOT FORGET, LITTLE BROTHER,_ said a voice in his head, as deep and vast and ancient as the night sky. The voice of the dragon. The sky-walker.

“I won’t forget… Great Sister. I promise.”

* * *

“I knew this day would come.”

Kenit snorted and let the Grandmaster have her say.

“I just knew that someday you would find a way to upset millennia of Jedi tradition.”

“As if you haven’t tried, yourself,” Kenit pointed out wryly, trotting alongside the Togruta’s slower but longer steps.

Ja’ali chuckled. “Yes, well.” She sighed. “You are right, of course. We shouldn’t turn down the boy when he’s not only asked for our help but also demonstrated complete willingness to take up the Jedi way. And I will do all I can to convince the rest of the Council; however, I must also think on what should be done with him if he is accepted. It seems a bit of an insult to put a mature child in an initiate creche, but the alternative is finding someone to take him as a Padawan.”

“You don’t need to worry about that, Master; I’ll take him.”

Ja’ali stopped and looked down at Kenit in surprise. “You? Kenit, you are going to join the Council next month. You can’t be on the Council and have a Padawan; at least, not one that young!”

“The Council will have to wait,” Kenit said with a lightness he did not quite feel. “The boy needs someone who is willing to understand him, and I have already known him in his home environment.”

“Don’t feel that you have to make that sacrifice based on that reason alone,” Ja’ali said gently. “There are other masters who would be willing to give the boy the understanding he needs.”

“Perhaps, but… When we were on Tatooine, I felt… I felt very strongly that the boy and I were meant to be important to each other’s lives. Threads of destiny, if you will. Meeting Sherlock Holmes was the will of the Force; of that, I have no doubt.”

Ja’ali nodded slowly. “I have sensed… something similar. Not as well-defined, but I agree. Sherlock was meant to come to you, and you were meant to bring him here. As far as it is within my power, he _will_ be a Jedi, my old friend, I promise you.”

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock stood before the Council again, Kenit standing behind, a comforting presence in the midst of twelve Jedi Masters who were not allowing their thoughts and emotions to be felt, not this time. “Sherlock Holmes,” Ja’ali Se intoned solemnly, “it is the will of this Council that you join the Jedi Order, if that is still your wish.”

Wide-eyed, Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to will away his nervousness. “It is.”

Approval glimmered in Master Se’s large eyes. “Then a Jedi you will be. Master Kenit Nusep has agreed to take you as his Padawan learner.”

“May the Force be with you both,” Master Dorn said gravely.

Kenit bowed, and Sherlock copied him. “May the Force,” said Sherlock’s new mentor, “be with us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Finally. Sherlock Holmes is a Jedi, and it only took me three chapters to get to that starting point. :P I should point out right now that there will be absolutely zero characters from SW canon or EU (past and present) in these stories. We’re keeping historical figures like Revan and Darth Bane, but anybody alive at this point in Star Wars history is out the window. It’s just… cleaner, that way.
> 
> Ja’ali Se doesn’t have a counterpart in the SH universe, in case anyone was wondering. And I think that ever since I started thinking about how to continue this AU from what Ria had started, the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order would be a woman. And, frankly, more unambiguously good than Yoda. I hope you guys will like her, because I love her to pieces.
> 
> And, wow, this was the longest chapter I’ve written yet for this ‘verse! I really wanted to fit this all in one go, and stuff kept piling on (I blame the characters). In the end, I decided to cut out the Council’s private discussion about Sherlock, at least for the moment. We might hear more about it later on in a flashback. For now, I didn’t want the chapter to get any longer than it already was, and I wanted to end it with Sherlock as a Jedi.
> 
> Last but not least, massive shout-out to the amazing Fialleril, without whose Tatooine slave culture worldbuilding I probably wouldn’t have tried so hard to do some of my own. Sometimes, my stuff might parallel theirs; other times, depart completely. But I felt that a shout-out was in order. Especially if you haven’t read their magnificent AU Double Agent Vader yet (on FFN, AO3, and Tumblr). If you haven’t, what are you doing with your life??


	5. Pt I, Ch 4: The Padawan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes as a Padawan: The Early Days. And even he has his limits...

" _A Jedi must have the deepest commitment, mm? The most serious mind."_  
—Yoda,  _The Empire Strikes Back_

Ja'ali Se rapped on the door of Kenit Nusep's apartment, and it opened to reveal Sherlock Holmes sitting on the floor. The boy radiated serenity, legs folded beneath him, hands deceptively still on his lap.

 _Deceptively still_ , because several balls danced gently through the air around his head.

Ja'ali smiled. "Good morning, young one."

Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head respectfully. "Good morning, Master Se."

"Should we skip our session today? You look halfway towards a meditative state already."

The boy shot up, the balls dropping to the floor in a chorus of thuds. "No, I'm not, really. I'm ready to go."

The Grandmaster arched an eyebrow but said, "Very well. Where is Kenit?"

"Out in the archives. Researching for that diplomatic mission."

"Ah." She gestured to the door; Sherlock walked out and she followed. She sensed his relief but chose to say nothing for the moment: the boy would open up to him in time—he always did.

In the few months that Sherlock Holmes had been in the Jedi Temple, the boy had progressed by leaps and bounds, far surpassing all expectations of him. Kenit was right: the boy  _was_  a genius, and he knew it, too. The first couple of weeks had been difficult for him, but once he'd relaxed, some of his flaws had surfaced, including his arrogance. Teaching the exceptionally bright younglings who hadn't yet learned humility was always difficult, and Sherlock was no exception.

But though his teachers could grow exasperated with him, they also valued his drive to learn. It was cliche to call the boy a sponge, and yet that was exactly what he was, absorbing all the knowledge he could. Within a week of learning that he could levitate objects, he had mastered the skill with an ease that would have made older Padawans envious, lifting not only multiple small objects with admirable coordination but also larger objects, including a small speeder.

And though he was behind other children his age in regular classes, he would catch up within the next year, Ja'ali was sure. Already he knew Huttese, one of the languages all Jedi were required to understand, and that would help his progress.

There was one skill, however, that Sherlock had had difficulty learning: meditation. The boy's hyper-intelligent mind was also hyperactive—always observing and calculating and sifting data—and he had found it almost impossible to clear his mind enough to meditate. At last, Kenit had spoken to Ja'ali about it, and thus Ja'ali would spend an hour with Sherlock every day in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, helping him meditate.

At first, he had gotten no further than merely calming himself and sitting perfectly still, a feat Ja'ali had counted a victory. Gradually, he found that he could latch on to Ja'ali's consciousness and drift gently in the Force towards meditation that way. Now, several months later, he was doing much better, although Ja'ali suspected that, for a long time to come, he might not be able to meditate so easily or at all outside the tranquility of the gardens.

They reached their usual spot in the gardens, a little clearing by one of the many waterfalls, and seated themselves on the floor. Sherlock flopped down with all the elasticity of a twelve-year-old; Ja'ali sank much more slowly. She could use the Force to soothe her ageing limbs as she folded them beneath her, but that didn't cure the arthritis.

"I hope you know, Master," said Sherlock, "that I really appreciate your doing this with me."

 _Ah_. "Sherlock…" The boy froze. "You don't need my help so much any more, do you? You really were close to meditating in your quarters, while you were levitating the balls."

"Kind of," he muttered, not meeting her gaze.

"Sherlock," she said gently. "I am always happy to help any of the younglings if they need it; that's why I'm here. But I also help them in the hope that someday, they will not need me and can manage on their own."

The boy's head snapped up, distress in his large grey eyes. "I know that! But…"

"But you enjoy the time with me," she said softly. The boy lowered his head again, embarrassment coloring his presence in the Force, and she smiled sadly. "You attach yourself too deeply, young one. It is not the Jedi way."

"Bantha—" Sherlock stopped his curse just in time. Ja'ali arched an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I just… the whole anti-attachment thing is stupid." At the raise of her other eyebrow, he protested, "Well, it  _is!_  You  _say_  don't get attached, but you put a master and a padawan together and what do you think is going to happen? What about the initiates in their creches? What about the beings on the Council? You can't tell me you're not friends, and friendship is attachment. It's just… it doesn't make any sense."

She smirked. "No, you're right, it doesn't." At his look of surprise, she sighed. "Sherlock, I'll not deny the Order has its flaws. Believe it or not, I don't condone the Code wholeheartedly. The Council and I have many disagreements. But I play the game, and try to work towards a better future for those who come after me. The Jedi weren't created in a day; any changes that come to it come slowly. In the meantime, you play by the rules."

"Even when they're not right?"

She sighed more deeply. "That… is a decision you have to make for yourself, Sherlock. You must do what you feel is right. But I'll tell you this: change never comes… if the people who want the change… leave."

He looked down. "I suppose so."

She rested her hand on his head. "Sherlock, I'll meditate with you today, but, starting tomorrow, I want you to try on your own for a week. If you give it your best and still can't manage alone, I'll continue to help you. But if you can do it, we will have to stop these sessions."

He looked up again, his jaw clenched in a way that told her he was holding back tears. "Yes, Master."

She lowered her hand to cup his face. "Dear one, it is not because I want to stop. I enjoy our sessions; I enjoy your company. You're a fresh breath of air in this stale old temple. But there comes a time when children have to start walking on their own. You can do this; I have faith in you."

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Now, come. Let's begin." She took his hand and squeezed it gently before she let go and settled into the proper meditative posture, and closed her eyes. She felt the boy do likewise, and then she reached out to the Force, to the light flowing around them, throbbing with life. The supernova that was Sherlock Holmes followed, and together, they slipped into deep parts of themselves, letting conscious thought drift away…

* * *

Sometimes, Ja'ali saw memories in while she meditated. Today, her memories were centered on Sherlock and his first days in the Temple…

It had been a minor miracle that the council was divided at the start regarding Sherlock's fate. Ja'ali had thought she would have had an entirely uphill battle, and though she had had to fight, the slope had been not quite so steep as she'd feared.

"Children older than… four or five standard years cannot be properly trained," Yehude Dorn had argued. "The usual flaws of other beings are entrenched in them at that point. The only way to build a strong-enough defense against the pull of the dark side is to instill Jedi values from infancy—this is how we have managed to avoid the mistakes of the past."

"We are not speaking of altering the rules completely," Kylar Fenisa pointed out. "We are speaking of making an exception for an exceptional child."

"I am not convinced," said Jen Vassa, their youngest member and a Nautolan female, "that the benefit outweighs the risk."

"If we speak of the dark side," Ja'ali interjected, "then let us consider the alternative. Let us say that we turn down young Holmes's request for training. What then will he do? Where will he go?" She paused, and no one spoke, knowing from experience that she was about to answer her own questions. "He  _will_  seek the answers to his questions; if we will not provide them, he will find others who  _will_. Dare we risk a child so intelligent and so strong in the Force stumbling across someone with less benevolent intentions?"

"You refer to our mystery Sith Lord," said Samu Elj, a dark-skinned human male from Corellia.

For a thousand years, the Jedi had managed to reign more or less peacefully over the other Force-wielding orders in the galaxy, unopposed by the Dark Lords of the Sith, whom they'd believed to have been exterminated at the end of the New Sith Wars. That is, until a year ago, when a young warrior, sporting blazing yellow eyes and a blood-red lightsaber, had killed a Jedi Master in combat, only to be killed himself then by Samu.

Ja'ali tilted her head. "They are certainly our greatest concern, yes, but there are many other Force users out there who would be all too willing to take in a such a bright child with a grudge against the Jedi."

"Better to keep a close eye on the child than let him wander," Yehude mused.

Ja'ali suppressed a sigh—Yehude Dorn had never been the warmest of Jedi Masters. "If you like."

Rowacca, a female Wookiee and a serving council member for the past century and a half, growled softly. " _We_ do _have a duty to this cub as much as any of our own. His intentions are pure; his heart is pure. I am willing to allow him into the Order._ "

At three hundred years old, Rowacca was the oldest Jedi Master alive and  _the_  voice of wisdom and reason in the Temple, second to none, not even Ja'ali herself. The Wookiee had been offered the position of Grandmaster many times and had refused every time, content to serve without the additional responsibilities that role entailed. She had been a role model for Ja'ali, the master of the Togruta's master's master, and Rowacca's support was a great relief. It was her voice that turned the tide in Sherlock's favor…

* * *

Deep in the currents of the Force, Sherlock, too, remembered. But his memories, unlike Ja'ali's, were not recent. He had always had a startlingly good memory that bordered on eidetic, but immersed in the Force like this, he could remember more details, further back in time and with more clarity.

He did this often while meditating. It wasn't a cure for the homesickness he often felt, but it helped.

He had been going on three, he was pretty sure, when he'd first seriously done what Mom had called "observing and deducing." (He'd later found out on the HoloNet that it was really called "abductive inference," but he still said "observing and deducing" because it was  _Mom_  who'd called it that.)

Mom and Dad had been part of a network to help runaway slaves. They would regularly play host to such beings, allowing them to stay over at the shop for a night or so.

This particular time, it was a female Twi'lek with pale green skin. Her dark green eyes looked tired and sad—and haunted, though that wasn't a word that would enter Sherlock's vocabulary until later. Both her lekku looked so badly mangled that little Sherlock had cringed to see them. She was quiet, too, exchanging very few words in Eltakku with his parents, and none in Basic.

It was the way she'd kept looking at him, furtively, her gaze quickly darting back away but sooner or later returning to him.

At last, it clicked in his head: she was a mother who had lost her child.

And with the sensitivity that sometimes came to small children, he wanted to help her feel just a little bit better. So he got up from where he'd been fiddling with broken bit of tech and toddled over to where she sat at the table, touching her arm lightly.

She started, and looked down at him, eyes widening.

"Would you like a hug?" Sherlock asked her in Eltakku. "They always make me feel better when I'm sad."

Something very nearly like a smile touched her eyes. "You're very sweet," she said after a moment.

He stretched out his arms invitingly, and she bent down to hug him. "Thank you, child," she murmured. She pulled back, and he beamed up at her, sensing a slight lifting of her spirits. "You remind me of my son, when he was your age."

"Did he die?" Sherlock asked solemnly.

"No." Pain crossed the Twi'lek's features. "I don't know. He was sold offworld, months ago."

And at Sherlock's very tender age, he already knew most slave families separated by planets never saw each other again.

Blinking back sudden tears, he squeezed her hand. "I hope you find him again someday."

She was blinking back tears of her own. "Me, too."

* * *

"Ah, Padawan." Kenit was back in their common room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, when Sherlock returned from the gardens. "How was your meditation?"

"Good," the boy answered grudgingly.

"Good?"

Sherlock didn't meet his master's eyes. "Master Ja'ali wants me to start meditating on my own."

The Svivreni's ears twitched. "Ah, I'd wondered when she would. You're a smart boy, Sherlock, and mature for your age; that's why I felt you would be all right on the upcoming mission."

Cheeks coloring just slightly, Sherlock settled onto the couch. "How was the research?"

"Not very helpful, to no one's surprise," Kenit said dryly. "That's what comes of having a group of humans exiled and then not make contact with the rest of the galaxy for centuries. The data from Republic Intelligence was more informative."

Sherlock nodded. "Who are the non-Jedi on the team? Do you know?"

"Oh yes. We'll be taking four pilots from the 131st Squadron, one of the Navy's finest, in accordance with the Adumari love of skilled fighter pilots. From the government itself, we're taking a Senator, one who is renowned for his diplomatic skills; he'll do most of the talking while we make sure nothing goes wrong."

Sherlock nodded, picking up the datapad the Council had given them for the mission. "Makes sense." He paused. "Master, what if there  _is_  trouble? I don't have a real lightsaber."

Kenit looked up with an impish gleam in his eyes. "I seem to recall that you disarmed and survived a Black Sun agent just fine without one."

Sherlock groaned. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"The odds of that are low."

* * *

Sherlock had been on missions prior to this, but never one this big. Months ago, a new planet on the edge of Wild Space had been discovered by a survey team; the planet turned out to be populated by humans, the descendants of human separatists who had rebelled against the Republic and then been exiled. Intelligence had moved in to scout out the planet, Adumar, and determine if it would be willing to rejoin the Republic. The Adumari assented to engaging in talks with a diplomatic team, and so it was that Kenit Nusep, Sherlock Holmes, and Kylar Fenisa—recently released from her responsibilities on the Jedi Council—found themselves making up the Jedi component of this team.

A shuttle took the Jedi from the Temple to the Star Destroyer  _Paramount_ , in orbit over Coruscant. The  _Paramount_ , with its full complement of starfighters, would take the team to Adumar and wait in orbit there until negotiations were concluded, which were determined to range from one standard week to two standard months. If the talks lasted beyond that, the Senator would have to return to the Senate to resume his normal duties, and the Jedi would take over, headed by Master Fenisa, the best negotiator in the Order.

As the shuttle approached the  _Paramount_ , Sherlock couldn't look away. He'd never been on a Star Destroyer before—indeed, had never even seen one in real life, and it was a magnificent sight.

Master Fenisa cast an amused glance at him, one he caught in his peripheral vision. "Do you like it, young one?"

"Very much, Master," he said honestly, and she smiled.

"You should have some time to explore—we have quite a journey ahead of us." Kenit cleared his throat, and Master Fenisa added, "That is, if your Master approves."

"Thank you, Kylar," said Kenit. "I suppose we do have enough time to do some exploring; perhaps, along the way, we can test your memory of the data files on Adumar."

"Deal," Sherlock said instantly.

The shuttle glided smoothly into a hangar in the Star Destroyer's starboard side and settled gently. Upon disembarking the shuttle, the Jedi were met by four clone pilots, but Sherlock couldn't make himself focus on them, his attention drawn to the starfighters and gunships in this hangar, each craft sleek and deadly. A nudge from his Master through their telepathic link, however, pulled his gaze reluctantly away from the ships and to the clones, the pilots for their team.

Two of the clones had dyed hair, and one sported a tattoo on his cheek, but they were otherwise identical: brown skin, brown eyes, gravelly voices. The Republic had been without a standing army for almost a millennium until about a hundred years ago, when a series of conflicts on the borders of Wild Space convinced the Senate to commission the creation of a new army, this bulk of this one made of clones. After a couple of decades, not only did the Republic have an Army once more, it also had fresh life breathed into its small Navy, expanding with clone officers and pilots.

The clones were trained and essentially programmed to be the very best at what they did, which was why clones had been chosen for the piloting component of the diplomatic team. Their squadron leader told the Jedi he was to escort them to the bridge and set off, his brothers following in something very close to lock-step. Sherlock could appreciate the discipline and the efficiency, but something about the idea of the clone military didn't sit well with him. The clones were created and utilized like droids, but they  _weren't_  droids—they were people! And droids, for that matter, were pretty kriffing close to people, too, given their independence of thought!

It just felt too much like a slave army, if Sherlock was honest with himself.

But his criticisms of the current military system fled his mind as they at last stepped onto the bridge, bustling with clones and non-clones alike, the viewport beyond them filled with stars and other ships. The captain, a middle-sized, middle-aged man, stepped forward and nodded respectfully. "Master Jedi, I am Captain Sinid Bonn, and it is my honor to escort you to Adumar for this mission."

"Thank you, Captain," said Master Fenisa, the more senior of the two Masters. "It is our honor to be here."

A tall man detached himself from a readout station at the port side of the bridge and approached the Jedi. Sherlock had to check to make sure the man was human—he must have been over two meters tall! But yes, he was human, thin almost to the point of gauntness, and pale. He had silvering black hair, sharp facial features, and dark grey eyes brimming with intelligence and something else Sherlock couldn't quite identify. He wore long, flowing, elegant robes in several hues of blue, and he walked with the confidence of a being very much in their element.

"Ah," said Captain Bonn, "allow me to introduce you to the last member of your party."

The man bowed just slightly. "Senator James Moriarty of Pelagon, at your service."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand life just got a lot more interesting for Sherlock, right? :D And yes, next chapter will be an AU take on Starfighters of Adumar, which has to be one of the funniest books ever to come out of the EU, new or Legends.
> 
> Also, cookies if you get who Samu Elj is a take on—shouldn't be too hard. ;)
> 
> Finally, yes, Sherlock's past and family history really does thoroughly influence the way he interacts with people and the way he views the galaxy. (As it really should have done with Anakin and as it should do with Luke if there's ever a remake of the OT.) Ria suggested that Sherlock recall the first time he did his Thing, and what felt the truest to the character as he's developing in this 'verse is him doing the Thing with a runaway slave.
> 
> Please do R&R! Love to hear from you all!


End file.
